


Repairing the Bulwark

by ioanite



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ioanite/pseuds/ioanite
Summary: Hornblower can't stop dwelling on (or blaming himself for) the events of Caudebec. But as is so often the case, good fortune appears to be on his side.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Repairing the Bulwark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shorina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shorina/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Shorina!

“Sir?”

Hornblower looked up from his desk with a jolt. “What is it, Dobbs?” he asked curtly, hoping to cover up his inattentiveness.

“Apologies for disturbing you, sir. _Monsieur_ Lebrun is having some trouble with the inventory. He was wondering if it would be possible to assign another man or two to the job.”

Hornblower quickly cast his mind over the men at his disposal and their current duties. “I believe I can spare Brooke and Restin. One English, one French. That way, we can make sure everything runs smoothly while also keeping Lebrun from accusing us of not trusting him.”

“Very good, sir,” Dobbs said with a slight smile, “I’ll set them to it at once.”

Hornblower nodded, dismissing the man and looking back down at his papers. But even though he lifted up his quill, he proceeded to spin it between his thumb and forefinger, unable to keep his thoughts from drifting to the thing that had been gnawing at his mind for the past three days. He knew it was unprofessional to keep dwelling on it at the expense of his position, but he couldn’t seem to stop the thoughts from coming, especially in quieter moments. In particular, one fact kept floating through his head, as painful as it was damning.

He’d murdered William Bush.

Oh, not deliberately, of course. But the fact remained that he’d chosen Bush to lead the Caudebec mission. He could have selected any other officer to do the job, but because of his friendship with Bush and desire to let him gain more accolades, Hornblower had picked Bush, assuming it would be a relatively simple task. Hornblower could argue with himself all he wanted that his years of working with Bush had shown him that Bush was the right man for the job, but his decision had been driven by personal feeling more than the good of the service. Now he was being punished for it, and while he was willing to bear the cross if it only impacted him, he couldn’t bear the knowledge that his favoritism had cost a friend his life.

He had no idea how he could atone for his mistake. Making sure Bush hadn’t died in vain was a good start, but all the reports he received suggested that this war was drawing to a close, so there wasn’t much more he could do on that score. He’d written letters to each of Bush’s sisters, expressing his apologies for their loss and his part in it and promising that he’d make sure they were looked after, even if he had to pay for it himself. He had plans to commission a monument to Bush’s sacrifice at Caudebec, a permanent reminder of Bush’s bravery and Hornblower’s failure. But none of it felt like enough to make up for what had happened. Hornblower suspected this was a wound that would never fully heal, one that would leave him even more stunted and unfit for leadership than he already was.

Wrenching his mind off the topic, Hornblower forced himself to turn his attention back to his paperwork. He knew the thoughts would creep back as soon as he let his guard down, but he could at least make his best attempt to do his duties in the meantime. Perhaps he would be lucky and some small crisis would arise to distract him for even longer.

***

Four days later, Hornblower was in the process of dressing when he heard a rapid pounding of feet outside, followed by a haphazard knock on his door. “Come in!” he said, immediately on alert. Had Bonapartist troops been sighted? Had news been received that the war was over?

Howard pushed open the door, eyes wide and chest heaving with exertion; clearly he had been sprinting. “S-sir,” he began, drawing in a ragged breath as he saluted, “There’s a Frenchman here…from Caudebec.”

Hornblower’s hands froze on his neckerchief. “And?” he snapped, trying to disguise his shock.

Howard took another deep breath and gave Hornblower a look of wonder. “Well, sir, it was difficult to make everything out, but this man—Alban, I think he said his name was—found a man washed up on Caudebec’s shores a week ago, on the morning after our sortie. The man was in a bad way, and he’s only now become lucid. When he confirmed that he was a member of the British Navy, Alban came straight here.”

“Did he…did the sailor give his name?” Hornblower asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Alban couldn’t quite make it out, sir,” Howard said, “But he knows that the man is a Captain.”

Hornblower stood stock still, heart pounding in his ears. It couldn’t be…he couldn’t dare hope…

Then, at last, his mind leapt into action. “Ready a ship, any ship, and tell them to make preparations to set sail for Caudebec. I’ll be along presently with _Monsieur_ Alban. In the meantime, bring him here so I can hear his story personally. You and Dobbs are to take over my duties until I return.”

“Aye, sir!” Howard said, saluting again and disappearing from sight. Hornblower resumed dressing, hands shaking slightly as he worked the buttons on first his vest, then his jacket. He tried to will himself to stay calm, to not jump to conclusions. That path only led to disappointment and a deepening of his wound. The sailor could have been lying to try to ensure better treatment if he was sent to prison, or still addled from his injuries and spoke incorrectly, or Alban had heard the man saying he served under a Captain, not that he was one himself. Hornblower had to remember those options, not jump to the most outlandish possibility. Even if it was the one he so desperately wanted to believe.

Alban arrived just as Hornblower finished dressing, and Hornblower curtly ordered him to follow before demanding the full story. Baffled and nervous, Alban obeyed, and once he had repeatedly assured Hornblower of his loyalty to the Bourbons, he finally began his recounting. He had gone down to the beach to watch the sunrise the morning after the attack, while also taking stock of the damage that had been done. In the course of his walk, he came across what he initially assumed was debris, but realized upon drawing closer that it was a body. He left to fetch others, intending to give the body a proper burial, only for them to realize upon returning that the man was still alive. As the one who had found him, Alban took responsibility for him, especially since the man was missing a leg. Hornblower’s insides gave a jolt at that, but he forced the thought from his mind as he urged Alban to continue.

The man remained disoriented for quite some time, mostly as a result from a blow on the head but also due to a fever, perhaps caused from being exposed to the elements for so long. He didn’t seem to understand much of anything spoken to him, and Alban couldn’t make sense of the man’s mumblings, though he recognized a few English words and began to suspect the man was an Englishman. It was only yesterday that the man had come back to himself, and while they still couldn’t carry on a proper conversation, Alban had been able to determine that the man was a Captain, that he had come from Le Havre, and that he served a Commodore Hornblower. With those facts in hand, Alban had set out for Le Havre that very evening.

By the time Alban had finished his story, he and Hornblower were aboard the _Porta Coeli_ , the sails already unfurled and the course set for Caudebec. Hornblower thanked the man and promised to reimburse him for any expenses made in caring for the injured Captain, then dismissed him and turned his attention to the horizon, waiting for a glimpse of the fateful, but perhaps no longer fatal, town. He was still trying to will himself not to hope, but the facts seemed to be pointing to one conclusion. Hornblower could only pray that it was the correct one.

Two hours later (although it felt like an eternity), Caudebec finally came into view, badly damaged by the explosion that had caused so much grief. The sight made Hornblower’s heart ache and race simultaneously. If he was wrong about all this, the scars on the town would just be a mirror of Hornblower’s own loss, made worse by the brief hours of hope. But if he was right…he’d still regret the damage done, but he’d look on the marks as a badge of honor, of a hard-won fight that had shaped Caudebec in a way it could both recover and grow stronger from. So much depended on what would happen when the _Porta Coeli_ laid anchor.

It took all of Hornblower’s self-control not to bark out orders for the men to work faster at their tasks, or threaten punishments for any missteps. None of them deserved to be dragged into Hornblower’s internal turmoil, and it ran the risk of damaging his perpetually tenuous reputation besides. He compromised by standing on the quarterdeck and glowering at everyone in the hopes that it would spur them to quicker action. He couldn’t be sure if it worked or not, however, as it still felt like an age before the anchor was lowered and a boat made ready for Hornblower, Alban, and a few others (including the ship’s doctor) to enter the town. As soon as he was told all was in place, he strode over briskly, still conscious to make his actions quick but not rushed. He was sure the men would still whisper, but for the moment, he was willing to let them do so; all that mattered was learning the truth.

Another fifteen minutes of rowing brought the boat to shore, at which point Alban led the way to his home, which was further inland and had happily escaped damage. When they arrived at his door, Alban graciously pushed it open and gestured for Hornblower and Doctor Henson to enter first. “ _Il est dans la pi_ _èce la plus éloignée_.” Hornblower gave a curt nod of thanks and stepped inside, striding back to the far end of the house. His heart leapt to his throat when he spotted the doorframe indicating where the injured man lay, but swallowing and steeling his resolve, he went up to it and stood underneath it, looking around.

Within seconds, he had located the bed, where a figure was propped up, dressed in either his shirtsleeves or a borrowed nightshirt. His lower half was covered in blankets, so it was difficult to see if there was a missing leg or not. But as Hornblower slowly made to look at the man’s face, he heard a gasp, saw the man’s body struggle to sit up straighter, and heard a voice he had never expected to hear again.

“Commodore Hornblower, sir!”

In an instant, the irritation and the anxiety of the last few hours, as well as the gnawing grief of the past week, was washed away in a flood of relief. Hornblower had to clasp his hands behind his back and stiffen his legs and back to keep himself from sinking to the floor. He looked at the man’s face, confirming once and for all that the man Alban had found was indeed William Bush. Bush was looking at Hornblower with wonder, no doubt amazed that a Commodore would take the time to come and visit him. As if Hornblower could have done anything else!

He swallowed and cleared his throat. “At your ease, man. You are the one confined to a sickbed, after all.”

Bush blinked at him for a moment. “My apologies, sir, but you’ll have to speak up. I’ve…had trouble hearing of late.”

Hornblower felt a new pang of nerves at that, but obligingly raised his voice. “At ease, Captain Bush. There’s no need to waste energy on this particular formality at the moment.”

Bush nodded and relaxed, settling himself back into the bed. Hornblower stepped into the room and beckoned for Henson to follow and begin an examination. “I must say, Mr. Bush, it’s a surprise to find you alive,” Hornblower said, trying to sound jovial, “Livingstone made it sound like you’d been blown to pieces.”

“It’s a miracle that I wasn’t, sir,” Bush responded, nodding to Henson as the doctor bent over him, “I saw the man about to fire the shot that set off the powder barge and tried to leap clear. I suppose I was far enough away that the force and the waves pushed me to safety.”

“No doubt,” Hornblower agreed, twisting his hands behind him, “But how did you end up on shore?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir. Something struck me in the head in the immediate aftermath of the explosion, which almost knocked me senseless. But I had enough presence of mind to grab onto a large section of wood that was nearby and haul myself half on top of it before I fell unconscious. I must have removed my jacket as well to keep from being weighed down, as I’ve seen no sign of it. I suppose after that I must have drifted to shore, where I was found by the Frenchman. How long have I been indisposed?”

“A week and a half, at least.”

Bush’s eyes widened. “No wonder you all believed me dead. I’m sorry if my apparent loss caused any complications.”

Hornblower wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Saying that things had run smoothly in Le Havre without Bush seemed callous, but admitting the effect his disappearance had had on Hornblower would be too revealing, especially in front of others. As a compromise, he stepped forward and rested his hand on top of Bush’s, feeling another wave of relief wash over him as he did so. Bush’s hand was rough and warm, and unquestionably solid and _real_. “A few,” he managed after a moment, “But we’ve managed. And I’m sure everything will return to top fighting shape once you return to Le Havre. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?” he said, looking pointedly at Henson.

“It may take a bit longer than that,” Henson said, “While the fact that you can sit up and converse is an excellent sign, Captain, you’re clearly not back to full strength. I’ll need to do a more thorough examination to determine how much rest you’ll need. Your pardon, Commodore, but it would be best if I examined Mr. Bush alone, without distractions.”

As much as Hornblower was tempted to use his rank and the excuse of getting a full report from Bush in order to remain, he knew allowing the doctor to do his work would be for the best in the long run. So he nodded and stepped away. “Report to me as soon as you finish your examination. If he’s fit to move, I want him brought to the _Porta Coeli_ as soon as possible.”

He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him and turning to find Alban standing in the hall, apparently having listened in on proceedings. “ _Votre homme sera bien?_ ”

“ _Oui_ ,” Hornblower responded, with a confidence he almost completely believed himself, “ _Il sera bien._ _Mais nous devons discuter de la compensation pour votre aide_ …”

In the end, Hornblower promised to pay significantly more than the man was asking for, passing it off as gratitude for supporting the Bourbon cause. They were just shaking hands on it, Hornblower assuring Alban that he would be paid when they returned to Le Havre, when the door opened and Doctor Henson emerged. “Well?” Hornblower demanded as soon as the door was closed.

“He’s in no danger of dying,” Henson said, and Hornblower felt another bit of lingering tension leave him, “And I believe he’ll be able to make the trip with little difficulty, as long as he’s carried to the ship. Though I suppose that would have to happen to some degree anyway, since his wooden leg was lost. After that, more rest and the gradual introduction of exercise should bring him back on his feet within a week or two. However, I don’t believe he’s escaped his ordeal completely unscathed.” Something must have shown on Hornblower’s face, because Henson was quick to elaborate. “You heard him say that he has trouble hearing. I’m afraid that may be a permanent affliction. Whether it was due to the blow on the head or his proximity to the blast, I can’t say, but it seems likely that Captain Bush has become partially deaf. However, much like the loss of his leg, I believe he can continue to serve in the Navy with a few accommodations. Though with this war almost certainly drawing to an end, I’m not sure how much longer his services will be needed.”

“Have you informed him of all this?” Hornblower asked, a mixture of relief and guilt swirling in his stomach.

Henson nodded and smiled ruefully. “He appears to have accepted matters with good grace. Seems much more interested in returning to Le Havre than what his condition could mean for him going forward.”

“Very well. Return to the _Porta Coeli_ and fetch whatever men and supplies you need to help bring Bush aboard. I will wait here and get a full report from him for the Admiralty.”

“Of course, sir,” Henson said, saluting, “I’ll be as quick as I can.” With that, he moved past Hornblower towards the front door. Hornblower waited until he’d disappeared from sight, then nodded to Alban and returned to Bush’s room.

Bush was propped up a little higher on the bed, his body having been maneuvered into a (presumably) more comfortable position. He smiled when he saw Hornblower enter. “Will we be departing for Le Havre soon, sir?”

“As soon as Henson can get you safely aboard the _Porta Coeli_. Then it’s just a matter of getting you back on your feet.” Hornblower drew up a chair to sit beside the bed, looking down and fidgeting with his hands as he tried to find the proper words. Finally, he looked back up at Bush and said, raising his voice again to make sure Bush heard every word;

“Mr. Bush, I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re well looked after. I’ll have another wooden leg made to your specifications, and make inquiries for any doctors who might have the skills to help restore your hearing. In the meantime, I intend to write a report to the Admiralty detailing your bravery on the mission, with recommendations that you be given some sort of public recognition for it. Should they choose to retire you at the war’s end, I’ll fight to ensure you receive full pay instead of half-pay. And should you keep your position, I’ll use what influence I have to get you another command. Perhaps one even finer than the _Nonsuch_.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bush said, “But you needn’t go to all that trouble on my behalf. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to.”

Hornblower shook his head and clasped his friend’s hand. “There are many things I’ll have to devote my time to, given my position, but after all this…your welfare is just as important to me as Bonaparte’s downfall.”

Bush’s hand lightly pressed Hornblower’s. “Well then, I appreciate your efforts. And should I manage to recover before Bonaparte is defeated, I promise to dedicate all my energy to the fight in order to repay your kindness.”

Hornblower felt his throat tighten. His “kindness” had nearly got Bush killed, and yet Bush still thought he owed something to Hornblower and the service! His devotion to his duty and his superiors was remarkable, admirable, and in this particular case, horrendously misplaced. But Hornblower wasn’t sure how to express such a thing, so he contented himself with keeping his hand on Bush’s as he cleared his throat and turned to the matter of the report for the Admiralty. It may have been meant as an excuse, but there was at least a grain of truth to it.

About an hour later, Henson returned with four of the _Porta Coeli_ ’s strongest crewmen and a stretcher, and carefully directed them to lift Bush onto it. Bush did grimace a little as he was lifted, but bore the transfer well. When the time came for them to start moving the stretcher towards the boat, Hornblower knew he had to take the lead, as it would look odd for him to remain at the back, especially since Henson was there to monitor Bush’s condition. Therefore, he did his duty, forcing himself to keep his gaze forward and not to glance back constantly to see how Bush was faring. He allowed himself to do it twice, on the pretense of making sure he hadn’t gone too far ahead, and each time saw that Bush seemed uncomfortable but not in unbearable pain. As Henson didn’t appear concerned and could be occasionally heard telling the men to move slower or to “keep it steady”, Hornblower left the matter in his hands, despite wishing to bark out similar orders.

It took about twenty minutes to return to the boat, another five to get Bush settled inside it, and fifteen more to return to the _Porta Coeli_. The crew must have been preparing for their arrival, for the boat had only just come alongside when a large bit of canvas, supported by ropes, was lowered down to them to help lift Bush aboard. This time, despite protocol, Hornblower remained on the boat to make sure Bush was transferred safely before coming aboard. Happily, despite the rocking of both vessels, Bush was brought up without incident.

Once Bush had reached the deck, Henson ordered him brought to the infirmary “so I can keep an eye on him during the trip.” Hornblower oversaw that transfer as well, but knew he couldn’t linger. Instead, he waited until the crewmen had departed, then offered his hand to Bush again. “I have to oversee our departure from Caudebec. But I’ll be sure to look in on you again to make sure everything’s all right. Assuming both you and Doctor Henson are amenable.”

“I see no reason why not,” Henson responded, “He should be fit for conversation, assuming the trip here hasn’t exhausted him too much.”

Bush nodded in agreement as he shook Hornblower’s hand. “I fear I probably will fall asleep eventually, but I can probably manage a bit of talking. Though I’m not sure how much more there is to say at present.”

While Hornblower felt like there was plenty more to say, at least on his end, he wasn’t entirely sure if he could find the words. He simply nodded, cleared his throat, and stepped back, telling Henson to inform him immediately if there was any change in Bush’s condition before turning and leaving the infirmary.

The men were quick to spring to action when Hornblower indicated it was time to get underway; the sails were set and the anchor raised in a very respectable time. After hearing confirmation of their course and heading, Hornblower nodded. “Very good, Mr. Freeman,” he said, “I’ll be in my quarters. Send for me only if a ship appears or some other notable complication arises.”

“Aye, sir!” Freeman said with a salute, and Hornblower turned and strode to his cabin. He maintained his façade while he crossed the deck, but as soon as the door closed behind him, all of the guilt, relief, and nerves crashed in on Hornblower all at once. Without even bothering to remove his hat and cloak, Hornblower pressed his back to the wall and slid down it, his whole body starting to tremble. With a shaky exhalation, he put his face in his hands, feeling his chest clench and his throat tighten but refusing to allow the sobs to escape. It was ridiculous to weep over the situation, especially since everything had turned out well, and he needed to be prepared for a summons besides. Clenching his teeth until the worst of the tightness had passed, he exhaled again and tried to focus on his breathing, knowing that if he could get that under control, the rest of his composure would follow.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in that position, though based on the occasional calls he could hear from outside, the _Porta Coeli_ had passed into open waters. Eventually, however, he was able to draw a breath without it catching, and realized the trembling had subsided as well. Nodding grimly to himself, he hauled himself to his feet and brushed himself off, adjusting his clothes till they were befitting of an officer. Then he took off his cloak and hat and sat at the desk, pulling out paper and pen with the intent of writing his report on Bush’s survival. Should someone come for him, it would be assumed he’d been working on it all this time. And once he was finished, he’d return to the infirmary and look in on Bush, as promised. Hopefully, enough time would have passed that no one would think twice about it.

***

Hornblower knocked loudly on the door to Bush’s room, taking advantage of the brief pause to smooth out his coat, made wrinkled from hours of sitting. Even so, he only managed one or two tugs before Bush said “Come in.”, and Hornblower quickly moved to push the door open.

Bush was on his feet, albeit with one hand resting on the bedframe, testing out his new wooden leg. As soon as he saw Hornblower, he snapped to attention, hand coming up in a salute. “Sir.”

Hornblower raised a hand. “At ease, Mr. Bush,” he said, remembering midway through to raise his voice so Bush could hear, “I was merely coming to see your progress. How is the leg?”

“I believe it’s made of a heavier wood than my last one, sir,” Bush answered, slowly moving round the bed to fetch the ear trumpet that Hornblower had spent at least a week sending men out to search for, “Which takes some getting used to. But I’m sure I’ll find the balance soon enough.” Then he chuckled. “Then again, perhaps it’ll become easier once I’m back on a ship, and the rocking of the keel can help compensate.”

Hornblower smiled. “It might, at that. Aside from that, are you well? Your appetite seems to have recovered if yesterday was any indication.”

Bush had the trumpet to his ear by this time. “My limbs still feel weak and sluggish, and I don’t believe I can remain on my feet for more than a half-hour at a time. Nonetheless, I feel much stronger than I did when you first found me.”

“Very good, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower said, lowering his voice a little. Bush had assured him the trumpet did help, but he still needed people to speak a little louder around him. It seemed impossible to Hornblower that he’d ever be able to adjust to that, and marvelled at how well Bush had adapted. Then again, that seemed to be Bush’s way; accepting his fate with minimal complaint, though quick to ire if someone else was unjustly treated. He’d done it often on Hornblower’s behalf, and more often than not, Hornblower repaid him with brusqueness or even cruelty. It wasn’t the first time that Hornblower had reflected on his poor treatment of his friend, but having nearly lost him, it was harder to ignore Hornblower’s past behavior this time. Well, it was too late to make amends for what was past, but at least he could try to do better going forward.

“Do you think you’ll be able to manage a game of cards this evening?” he asked, “It’s an activity that can be done abed, if nothing else.”

“That would be appreciated on both counts, sir,” Bush said, resuming his exercise, “Though I don’t believe I’ll be a good partner for whist. Three people sitting at my bedside would make me feel a bit hemmed in.”

“Not to worry,” Hornblower said, “There are other games besides whist, plenty of which are much better suited for two players. Piquet or casino will serve just as well.”

Bush looked at him in slight surprise, but nodded. “Whatever strikes your fancy, sir. When can I expect you?”

“Assuming I’m not caught up by some new crisis, I’ll come around at eight.”

Bush nodded again. “Perhaps I’ll be able to open the door for you this time. Though of course, you’ll have to knock firmly to make sure I hear you.”

Hornblower raised a hand. “Don’t exhaust yourself on my account, Mr. Bush. Unlike what others here believe, I have no distaste for opening my own doors and other menial tasks.”

“Nevertheless, I will try. If nothing else, it offers me more practice.” Bush said with a wry smile.

Hornblower cursed himself for not considering that. “Yes, of course. Even so, should your strength be at a low ebb, I’d suggest you remain abed. There will be plenty of opportunities to practice, after all.”

“True enough, sir.” Bush said, stepping away from the wall to test his balance—he swayed noticeably but remained on his feet. Once he was satisfied, he looked back at Hornblower. “Was there anything else you wished to speak with me about?”

“No,” Hornblower said, “As I said, I wanted to inquire about your health. And as much as I’d prefer to stay and discuss other matters, I’m sure Dobbs or Lebrun will be seeking me out in due course. I’d best return to my desk.”

“Best of luck, sir,” Bush said, “Until eight, then.”

“Good luck to you too, Mr. Bush.” Hornblower responded, nodding at his leg. Then he left the room, already going over what tasks remained to be done. As he did so, he added a new one; have a bottle of brandy or other available spirit brought up for the game that night. It might dull their wits at cards somewhat, but he was sure Bush would appreciate it.

***

When the news finally came that the war was over, Hornblower greeted it with a mix of relief and apprehension. War’s end meant that he no longer had to worry about the responsibility of managing Le Havre, nor would his assignments be as much a matter of life and death. At the same time, he’d served in the navy for all his adult life, most of it in wartime. While he now had enough wealth (and, astonishingly, a title) that meant he could live comfortably, he wasn’t sure if he had the temperament for peacetime, particularly if he was put on half-pay or retired all together. He supposed he’d just have to find ways to occupy his time, and it was a stroke of good fortune that one such distraction was readily available.

Once he’d completed his final duties as military governor, Hornblower raised his flag over the _Porta Coeli_ and ordered Freeman to set a course for England. He also commandeered a second room on the ship for Bush’s private use. While he still spent the better part of his day attending to shipboard matters, he made sure to set aside at least an hour in the evenings to speak with his friend. Indeed, they dined together more often than not, discussing their current heading and speculating on the future of France. They did not, however, touch on their own futures, perhaps due to uncertainty of what exactly those futures would be.

Upon arriving in England, Hornblower settled matters with both the Admiralty and the _Porta Coeli_. Then, with no hesitation, he made arrangements for both Bush and himself to travel to Chichester. Bush protested, of course, but Hornblower was adamant; his affairs at Smallbridge would keep for a bit longer, while Bush’s sisters were no doubt desperate to see their brother again, to confirm that he was in fact alive. Hornblower wished to be on hand both to explain the situation in person and to apologize for any distress he may have caused them. The letters he had written informing them of Bush’s death had been sent out before Alban’s arrival, and while Hornblower had promptly written them to tell them their brother had been found alive after Bush had been settled in Le Havre, they had spent at least a month believing the worst. No wonder he’d received a letter from them where the reproval was hiding underneath the relief. If they needed to remove any lingering grief by shouting at him, it was a price he was willing to pay.

When they arrived at Bush’s house, Hornblower stepped down first, then moved aside so Bush could descend. While there was a part of him that still wished to provide assistance to Bush, he knew the man had no desire to be coddled or viewed as an invalid now that his strength had returned and he’d adjusted to his new condition. Given everything, Hornblower preferred to live with a little bit of shame that he wasn’t doing more than give offense to his friend.

Bush had barely taken two steps away from the carriage when the door to the small house flew open and there was a blur of muslin as four figures ran down the path towards them, calling Bush’s name in tones that ranged from overjoyed to on the verge of tears. They almost knocked him backwards as they threw their arms around him, though he righted himself before either Hornblower or the coachman could make a move to help him. Bush pressed hands, gave embraces, and lightly kissed foreheads in turn, repeating over and over that he was all right as the ladies babbled their happiness at seeing him again and how worried they’d been for him. Seeing his ease with them gave Hornblower a slight pang of jealousy; he only felt comfortable expressing that much intimacy behind closed doors, and only to a select few. Perhaps growing up with siblings as Bush had would have helped him be more open, but of course, there was no way to know now. As with many things in life, he would just have to make do with what he’d been given.

Bush finally managed to disentangle himself from his sisters, then turned towards Hornblower. “I believe introductions are in order. Sisters, may I present Lord Horatio Hornblower, Knight of the Bath and Commodore of His Majesty’s Navy? Sir, my sisters; Catherine, Georgiana, Lillian, and Penelope.”

Hornblower bowed to each of them in turn, and they curtseyed in response, looking him over curiously. He thought he saw a hint of reproach in Georgiana’s eyes, and cleared his throat before speaking. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Bush has spoken quite fondly of you.”

“And he of you,” Penelope, the youngest, said immediately, “He’s always credited you for all of the daring deeds he tells us about. Though you’re not as imposing as I expected.”

“Hush, Penelope,” Catherine chided her, before smiling at the two men, “Please, come in. Supper will be ready in an hour or so. We weren’t sure when to expect you, so we may not have enough for six of us. I hope you’ll forgive that, Commodore.”

“Of course,” Hornblower replied immediately, “My apologies for imposing.”

“Any friend or superior of William’s is more than welcome here,” she answered, lightly touching Bush’s shoulder before looking back at Hornblower with damp eyes, “Especially one who brought him back to us alive.” Unsure what the proper response to that was, Hornblower resisted the urge to clear his throat again and instead signaled for the coachman to bring their trunks to the house.

Despite Hornblower’s initial reservations, Bush’s sisters managed to gradually put him at ease. While they all seemed to talk over each other quite a bit, they knew when it was most appropriate to just listen, or to ask a question that made it easier for a tale to be told. It did, however, help that Bush was the one who did most of the speaking, telling them about his experiences on this latest mission, including the incident at Caudebec as well as the aftermath. Hornblower had braced himself for tears or cold looks in his direction, but while there were plenty of horrified gasps initially, the knowledge that it all ended well must have allowed them to hear the story with good grace. Nevertheless, he took advantage of a small lapse in Bush’s retelling to chime in.

“I feel I must apologize again, ladies, for frightening you with my initial letters. While they were sent to you before word had come of Bush’s survival, I still regret causing you any undue distress.”

“Your apology is appreciated,” Georgiana said, “But not needed. From what William has said, both in his letters and now, you did your utmost to help him recover once you realized he was alive. And with the war at an end, such an event is unlikely to happen again, and we won’t need to fear quite as much for his safety. That’s all that truly matters in the end.”

She squeezed Bush’s hand and smiled as she said it, and Hornblower felt another pang of jealousy, as well as one of shame that he could be forgiven so easily. And yet, there was also a small flicker of warmth in his chest, and his shoulders dropped a fraction as some of the last remnants of tension from his time in Le Havre disappeared. If Bush and his family could forgive Hornblower for what had transpired, perhaps in time Hornblower would be able to do so as well. And in the meantime, visiting with Bush and his family so they could all acclimate to peacetime together seemed an excellent way to move past what had happened.

Hornblower smiled. “I suppose it is, at that. But I’ve interrupted you, Mr. Bush. Pray, go on.”

***

For a time, Hornblower felt surprisingly at peace. Bush’s sisters were fine hostesses, not requiring anything from him but appreciating his offers to assist with minor tasks around the house. Bush, meanwhile, seemed both stronger and softer for his homecoming. Having shaken off any lingering weakness from his ordeals, he dedicated all his energy to his sisters, showing a gentleness and affection that might have been a surprise to a true outsider. Hornblower himself had been a bit startled initially, but had known Bush long enough to recognize that he was capable of such a shift. He felt honored to witness the transformation, and while he could not completely respond in kind, he did his best to be as friendly and agreeable as he could.

The weeks blended into each other, days spent in conversation and trips to town, evenings devoted to cards (Catherine proved to be quite adept at whist) and further talk. It was quite the unpleasant surprise, therefore, when Georgiana and Lillian burst into the house one afternoon, bonnets askew and the contents of their shopping basket decidedly worse for wear. “Napoleon’s escaped!” Lillian cried out excitedly, her voice loud enough that Bush seemed able to understand it even without his ear trumpet, “The shopkeeps say the rumor is he’s heading straight back to France!”

Bush and Hornblower immediately looked to Catherine for confirmation. She nodded, her own expression more concerned. “The news just arrived, apparently. Though I’m sure London is already in an uproar.”

Hornblower glanced at Bush, and saw a spark in his eyes, the same one he often spotted just before a sea battle. It was a look of determination, mixed with fervent belief in the might of the Royal Navy’s ability to win the day. Then his eyes landed on his ear trumpet, and the spark faded. “Will you require any assistance in packing your things, sir? I’m sure you’ll want to be off to the Admiralty as soon as possible.”

Hornblower had also felt the thrill of excitement and nerves that came from potential battle, and in other circumstances might have sprung to his feet to begin packing. But Bush’s words and demeanor were enough to curb the impulse, and he shook his head. “No, Mr. Bush, I believe I can manage. Besides, I’m sure your sisters would much prefer to assist you.”

“Sir?”

Hornblower smiled. “Naturally, if I’m to return to duty, I want a man I can rely on to captain my flagship. If the Admiralty intends to pull me back into battle, then I may as well use my position to gain certain advantages.”

Bush seemed astonished. “But sir…”

Hornblower got to his feet. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” he said to Catherine, “With luck, that will prevent your routine from being upended too much. I’ll head into town to arrange a carriage.” He looked back at Bush. “Do you wish to accompany me? Or would you rather pack and spend the time with your sisters?”

Bush hesitated, apparently still uncertain if Hornblower was sincere. Then the spark came back to his eyes, and he rose to his feet as well. “I’ll stay here, sir, if you truly don’t object.”

“Not at all, Mr. Bush. I’ll return as soon as I can. In the meantime, I suggest you make sure your uniform is clean and pressed. We may have to report to the Admiralty as soon as we arrive in London, and should do our utmost to look our best.”

Bush smiled, immediately straightening up and snapping into a salute. “Aye, sir!”

As his sisters crowded around him, discussing what needed to be done to prepare, Hornblower left the house, hoping he’d be able to learn more about Napoleon’s escape in town and start to formulate possible plans of action. With luck, this time they’d be able to end the Emperor’s reign once and for all.

**Author's Note:**

> French Translations:
> 
> *"He's in the farthest room."
> 
> *"Will your man be all right?"
> 
> *"Yes. He'll be all right. But we must discuss compensation for your assistance..."
> 
> ~~~  
> The inspiration for this story came from this part of Shorina's prompt: "I so, so love book-verse Bush. I had to stop reading the books after Bush was lost in the explosion and I still refuse to believe he's dead. I think he got concussed and suffers from amnesia so he doesn't know who he is or where he is. He's been through too much to just die." I too can't quite believe that Bush was killed offscreen, so this felt like a perfect way to rectify that, though I decided I preferred a surprise reunion set within canon. Forester might not have approved, but hey, fangirls gonna fangirl.


End file.
